


Cock

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Friends to Lovers, Intense Eye Contact, M/M, No Dialogue, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 16:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12774819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: Sherlock comes out a few minutes later, dressing gown tossed over the angles of his body almost as an afterthought, almost forgetful, that they don’t do –this– and he plops down next to John without thinking.





	Cock

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a little blurb on tumblr but grew too long to live there. This is not quite a sentence, but also the longest sentence I've ever written.

ok but there had to be a night, one night in summer, a hot, humid-close night, when they finish a case and stagger up the steps to 221B and John feels the sweat dripping down the bent-wet curve of his spine and Sherlock bangs open the door and strips to his pants halfway down the corridor to the loo whilst John eases down, slowly, eases down onto the sofa thighs hot and stuck to his jeans and he hears the shower running blissful and distant and waits and waits and Sherlock comes out a few minutes later dressing gown tossed over the angles of his body almost as an afterthought, almost forgetful, that they don’t do – _this_ – and he plops down next to John without thinking, John damp and close, John’s thighs tight in his jeans and Sherlock lets his knees fall just, just, just, just open

to show there wet and flushed soft pink against the inner skin of his thigh and John swallows hard because god knows he wasn’t expecting this god knows he’s been expecting this for years god knows he’s wanted craved needed this moment, this hot, humid-close, bent-wet-night moment where John swallows hard because Sherlock plops down without thinking, the afterthought dressing gown half-on half-off to show there wet and flushed soft pink against the inner skin of his thigh his

cock

and John thinks _I want to be rough with you_ and John thinks _I want to be the most gentle fuck you’ve ever had_ and Sherlock inches the damp-stuck skin of the back of his thigh towards John’s thigh tight in his too-hot jeans, almost nonchalant, the wanker, the mad brilliant fuck they could have if Sherlock just moves, just moves, just moves—just—so—

John sweats in his too-hot jeans and damp-stuck shirt and Sherlock moves, eases back the dressing gown and he’s flushed pink and warm between his thighs and all the air in the room rushes into John’s lungs and Sherlock makes a noise in the base of his throat, in the middle of the hollow barrel of his chest and John is hard, John is made of iron blood and hot-damp-stuck-clinging clothes and he does it, he feels himself, palms the heat behind the flies of his jeans, and Sherlock, not thinking, Sherlock, thinking of John, reaches over a ridiculous hand and pushes away John’s fingers palming the heat behind the flies of his jeans and places his fingers along the ridge of the beating blood filling John’s

cock

and feels there what John has been hiding, what John has been waiting for him to feel, and slowly, slowly, slowly, John’s thighs tight in his jeans, Sherlock damp and close, John lets his knees fall just, just, just, just open

and Sherlock watches, Sherlock with his wild pink soft-wet mouth, Sherlock with his long ridiculous fingers, presses against John’s beatingblood-filled-ache-heavy cock and John’s thighs tight in his jeans, John’s knees fall weak and mindless against the sofa, head back, eyes wide, breathing high and hot in his chest, his split-open heaving chest, mouth open moaning his name his name the sounds the syllables the secret of his name with Sherlock’s fingers just 

there

on John’s

cock

so John looks, wide-eyed, wide-eyed looks at Sherlock’s eyes wide, licks his bottom lip, stares at Sherlock’s mouth wild pink soft-wet and John thinks _have me_ and John thinks _let me have you_ and John reaches for Sherlock’s hand over his cock, watches Sherlock’s cock lying soft-stiff, firming up untouched there where it’s nestled against the pale skin of his thigh, nestled in a bed of wiry dark hair a mussed nest of scent and heat and John touches the bent curve of his own bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, thin-clear spit on his wet tongue, and watches, and Sherlock does the same, watches, wide eyes wide-eyed

quiet

and John lifts hips up and Sherlock presses fingers down and rubs, _christ_ , rubs up-down the length of John’s prick, spread thighs pressed into the sticky-summer sofa zipped up prick behind zipped up flies and John’s hips shift up as Sherlock’s hand shifts down and John’s hand rests over Sherlock’s hand over John tied up hidden behind zipped up files beating thick before Sherlock moves, slides his body, his hips, his long lines of limbs away from John, hand and fingers pressed into the bulge in his stupid jeans as John’s hand goes away, Sherlock’s mouth pink and tart, an unripe plum, John wants to drink him in as Sherlock slides away from John and down onto his knees in front of him in front of the sofa, wide-eyed heat like a spit-out ember, and Sherlock kneels in front of John, pinches with finger and thumb of his other hand the denim round the shiny-smooth button at the top, as John watches thinks _now_ thinks _fuck_ thinks and watches Sherlock draw out the button, John’s head back against the leather sofa, up against the wall, he thinks _up against the wall_ , and Sherlock pulls the slider on the zipper on the flies of John’s jeans down nub by nub by nub by nub by nub by nub, the sound interrupting the patter of John’s butterfly heart, the pattern of his shake-shallow breaths, in Sherlock’s chest an echo of staccato disbelief as all at once John’s flies give way to John’s pants which see air for less than a second before Sherlock buries his face against John’s cotton-wrapped

cock

and all at once he can’t breathe save for lightening down his spine the jolt of heavy blood pulsing against Sherlock’s tongue, damp-wet cotton under Sherlock’s mouth, his tart-plum lips with John eyes-wide pressed into the sofa, as he watches, stares at Sherlock on his knees bent over and into him kissing-sucking wet and needy at the soaking tip of his aching hungry prick caught up in his stupid fucking pants, so he reaches down as Sherlock reaches up and pulls him out, thick and rosy-headed, and Sherlock watches, watches, watches, eyes dark like a spit-out ember, watches John watch him as he wets the tip of John’s 

cock

with the tip of his tongue, watches John watch him as he presses his lips against the head of his prick, John, knees pressed wide into the sofa, head back _up against the wall_ he thinks _take me_ he thinks _have_ me and he reaches a hand round the back of Sherlock’s head weaves fingers through black shock-wave curls feels the distance close as Sherlock watches John watch him ease his pink-bud lips apart and

take

him

in 

with one long ache-slow motion, one dip of his head, ember eyes wide staring, and John breathes a long moan out from the centre of his chest, wanting, and watches down the plane of his own chest over the cup of his belly Sherlock suck him in lips stretched round the thick wet length of him, Sherlock’s mouth round him, Sherlock drinking him in and John thinks of the hand wrapped at the back of his head in-between his untidy damp-clean curls and John thinks of Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue wet and soft along the underside of John’s prick, feeling him, feeling inside Sherlock, open-kneed and wanting on a summer night on the sofa, his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth on John’s prick and John looks down, further, looks past and below and sees there hanging heavy a hard pink-pretty

cock

between Sherlock’s long wiry thighs and John’s chest is a bellows, he’s breathing high and fast and Sherlock dips his head again and licks him wet and loose and sucks at the head of him, pressure-release pressure-release sliding again and again and tongues at the satin-hot skin, lolls him heavy in the cradle of his tongue against the back of his throat between his lips, and John can’t lift his head can’t look away can’t breathe for wanting, for wanting, for wanting, and Sherlock wraps a hand round the base of John’s 

cock 

as the dressing gown shifts down his shoulders his hips his thighs his knees his ankles his feet until he’s bare-arsed naked, tart-mouth working bent up on his knees round John and John’s thighs ache from the sight of Sherlock with his prick in his mouth prick between his thighs dripping onto the floor his shoulders curved like a v with black-curls a punctuation mark, ember-dark eyes as he watches John watch him suck and lick, as he watches John watch his rosy prick bouncing swinging low and heavy, watches as John’s feet his calves his thighs tense and John thinks _fuck_ and John thinks _do me in_ as he stares at Sherlock naked between his legs, himself completely clothed save for his exposed thick-wet

cock

tucked sliding between his flatmate’s lips, but he’s buttoned up to the collar, cuffs buttoned at the wrists too, Sherlock naked and he’s too-hot in his too-tight jeans and stupid buttoned-up shirt, he thinks he ought to try to _fuck_ he thinks as _fuck_ Sherlock bobs his head, licks at him sucks at him soothes him takes him in again and again, naked there between his thighs and John presses his knees into the sofa and his head against the leather and Sherlock watches him watch him, watches him watch him grab for his own 

cock, 

take himself in hand, head-wet and wanting, smooth in his palm, pulls at himself as John watches him wank, watches him suck John’s prick curled over on his knees, dripping onto the floor in front of John in front of the sofa, and John threads a curl round his finger, holds on to spiralling hard-heat in the root of his spine, Sherlock’s mouth, pink-tart mouth sucking John in, his fist twisting up the length of himself, and _fuck and_ John breathes and watches _fuck_ and Sherlock watches him watches him moaning and wanting and John’s toes curl his thighs tense with _fuck_ it’s the _fuck_ beginning of the ending of it and it’s all John can _fuck_ do to _fuck_ anchor on Sherlock’s wet-soft mouth aching rosy prick sweet-sour licking sucking fucking wanting in his on him his mouth his _fuck_ his lovely _fuck fuck_ his

cock

John’s hips stutter-stop slide him deeper into Sherlock’s mouth bursting come dripping slipping out the corner of his mouth tensing waving pleasure from the tip of his prick through his bollocks to his arsehole up the length of his spine his thighs his curled-up tight toes shaking high-heavy chest and Sherlock makes a sound round his prick, a gasping potent jolt of sound and comes v-shouldered between his thighs spread wide between John’s widespread thighs pressed into the sofa, John’s thighs tight in his jeans and Sherlock, lips still round John’s prick, watches John watching him breathing slack-jawed, reaches for John’s hand, slides his knees just, just, just, just open, 

and places John’s fingers against the pinked-up inside skin of his thigh. 

 

 

 


End file.
